


The 104th Annual Hunger Games: Part One

by FandomsOnline



Series: The 104th Annual Hunger Games [1]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: All tagged characters appear, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Gen, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6166840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomsOnline/pseuds/FandomsOnline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Only the victors are allowed to live… The world is merciless like that.”<br/>At the age of fifteen, Mikasa Ackerman is ripped from her small family, reaped to participate and fight to the death in the Capitol’s annual Hunger Games. The circumstances remind her of her past, the very reason that she is aware of the only certainty of anything, especially the Hunger Games: death. She vows she will survive to protect her brother Eren, but is the Capitol’s power too great?<br/>The story of Mikasa’s fight for survival, the people she meets along the way and the chaos of the Games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reaping

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve practically re-read the Hunger Games multiple times just writing this… It’s an amazing book, and if you haven’t read it, you should. And if you have, go read it again! But anyway, this is my first fanfiction that I’ve written to upload. I’ve tried to follow both canons as much as possible; obviously there are restrictions because…well, you know, the majority kind of have to die? I don’t own either franchise – all the characters belong to Hajime Isayama (creator of Attack on Titan/Shingeki no Kyojin) and the fictional world and elements of the Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins (author of the Hunger Games trilogy). No profit will be made from this fictional work.  
> Each part starts off with a quotation from either fandom, and chapters may include some as well.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Only the victors are allowed to live… The world is merciless like that.”  
> At the age of fifteen, Mikasa Ackerman is ripped from her small family, reaped to participate and fight to the death in the Capitol’s annual Hunger Games. The circumstances remind her of her past, the very reason that she is aware of the only certainty of anything, especially the Hunger Games: death. She vows she will survive to protect her brother Eren, but is the Capitol’s power too great?  
> The story of Mikasa’s fight for survival, the people she meets along the way and the chaos of the games.

Chapter One

“Only victors are allowed to live…The world is merciless like that.”

Sixty seconds.  
Sixty seconds before my imminent death. It’s guaranteed; everyone here knows only one person ever survives.  
And it’s the one with the guts to kill the others. Out of cold blood, out of insanity, purely for protection. A victor’s reasons go on and on.  
Sixty seconds.  
Sixty seconds is all it could take to have a knife lodged in my back; sixty seconds is all it could take to be lifted up into a hovercraft; sixty seconds is long enough to open a coffin and cry at the still, emotionless corpse. The one that was once their family. Her daughter. His sister.  
Sixty seconds.  
Sixty seconds was long enough for my name to be picked out of the ball.  
Sixty seconds until the Games begin.

-

For once, the market is lively, contrasting the usual sea of grey faces and tired shouts. Everyone knows they can make money today. Of course, people are here to spend it, but the site is far from the town square, meaning that plenty will pass by on their way there.  
“So…she wants whatever we can get?” Eren, my brother asks.  
“The things you can get for the money you have,” I clarify. “And that means not making threats. If you can negotiate, then do. Just don’t scream at people; you’ll get into trouble.”  
“Mikasa, you’re not my mom,” he protests.  
“I don’t care. I don’t want to find you at a public beating.”  
Our mother, she doesn’t really worry about quality. ‘Once it’s cooked,’ she says, ‘you can’t tell.’ That’s partially true. In the Captiol, they must have trained taste buds, but here everything’s more or less the same. District Seven… always smells of pine trees. No matter where you go, the scent is strong and nostalgic, to an extent. This isn’t my home, it’s our home. Everyone here lives in a community, be it a family or a village or the heart of town. We work together, help each other out, and most importantly, aid each other in avoiding punishment. Why is it so important we stay together? District 7 provides lumber to the Capitol, so it’s a requirement of work that managed to extend into everyday life. We work in teams, sawing branches, logging trunks and transporting. It practically can’t be done alone.  
I squeeze my way through the hustle and bustle, peering over the stall shelves.  
“The best goat’s cheese around!” I hear. “That’s right, goat’s cheese! I gots a goat with me, you hear me right! Took it, you s-” But whoever was speaking falls silent, with the majority of the crowd. It’s no matter, though, because the towering Peacekeepers walk straight through, ignoring us. I’ve never liked Peacekeepers.  
Somehow, I manage to haggle some cheese down to a more affordable price, the make my way back with Eren tagging along.  
“A whole chicken!” Eren exclaims. “Can you believe it? Not even the cheap fish we get, but chicken!”  
“You mean you actually managed to haggle?” I ask. “Eren! How expensive was it?” It turns out we have enough left to buy a few vegetables. I guess it can’t be that bad of a buy, because it should last a while.  
The majority of the time, we don’t even get meat. Sometimes, when we’ve got just enough, we can buy a few of the cheapest fish, but other than that we go without. Shortage of food isn’t the problem here in Seven, money is. We’re not the richest family around. Would you believe it, when our father was a doctor?

-

“And don’t forget,” mother states as we finish the delicious meal. “This year is like any other. We listen, we watch, we go home. And they start the games.” Something’s off. She’s smiling too sweetly, and this day has been too good, too positive. I know she’s trying to be optimistic, but it dawns on me: it could be me, him or both of us.  
This is our fourth year, being fifteen and the reaping starting at twelve. The slips are accumulative, of course. But I don’t bring it up. After all, there are only three slips for each of us – that’s three in thousands; tens of thousands.

-

Everyone here waits with bated breath, focused on the reaping ball, caught on every word. What’s going to happen next? Whose family will be destroyed this year? Who’ll be sent away to the Games, never to be seen again?  
The crowd is like a swarm of bees, bustling and buzzing, only following the person in front. We’re herded like animals – dumb cattle: stupid, silent and most importantly obedient whilst awaiting our fate. To the right of the stage stands the Mayor, nobody of interest there.  
But to the left stands our only living victor, glory to District 7: Levi Ackerman. He wears an apathetic glare, with a spotless white shirt, a cravat, white trousers, boots and his signature green cape.  
At his side stand Petra Ral, District 7’s Hunger Games Ambassador who is about to make her speech. Copper hair, glimmering in the sunlight; petite with perfect posture: the epitome of perfection. In the Capitol’s eyes, anyway. To the naked eye, she seems to lack surgical adjustments – an anomaly amongst Capitol citizens – however, if you look closely, you can see the touched up cheekbones, the defined nose, the curvier lips. But only to her face.  
The years of dead tributes must have taken a toll on her winning grin for it to have to have been renewed. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not District 12. To be fair, our tributes tend to fare well enough in the Games. It just ends in one thing: disappointment. For our district, how could it be anything else? We’re not Careers. Of course we feel remorse for the tributes, but the gains from victories are desirable.  
The silence breaks as the microphone screeches. Through my apprehension, I’ve managed to miss the opening speeches.  
“Welcome, welcome…” she starts the generic speech for every reaping, and I mouth the words with her. “How about we do a little, say…switcheroo this year? Boys first, for a change!” The woman dips her hand into the ball, her hand swimming around for a while before she finally chooses a crisp piece of paper to open. 

“May the odds  
Be ever  
In your favour.”

“Jean Kirschtein,” Petra smiles, but it’s all a mask. The reaped tribute walks up to the stage, clad in standard apparel – a plain shirt and brown trousers – and a smug grin. His family seems too proud. Don’t they realise?  
Jean Kirschtein; the name rings a bell. A selfish, somewhat brutally honest, horse-faced jerk. He seems oblivious to the reality of the Games: his death. But I turn my attention to the crystal ball, deciding fates and predicting futures. One thought turns into a million in my head.  
That’s it; a male tribute has been picked.  
It wasn’t Eren.  
It wasn’t my brother Eren.  
Eren Jaeger wasn’t reaped for the Hunger Games.  
So who says it won’t be me? What if we get separated? Eren is loudmouthed and arrogant; traits that could easily get him exiled or worse killed. The Peacekeepers are awfully bad-tempered when they feel like it, and age is simply a factor for whether you get reaped or not. I’ve seen kids younger than me beaten to a pulp by those heartless monsters before, simply because they took home some of the branches at the end of the day for firewood. At least, they tried to.  
These thoughts, they’re distracting me, trying to convince me to drift away from reality. But I can’t do it. My name is one in thousands. It could be anyone. This is just another reaping, another year of the Hunger Games, like last year and all the ones before.  
But I can’t do it. I can’t go along with this make believe. It’s going to be me, and I know it. I just have that sinking feeling, because at this point I’ve lost all hope. My time has run out, and fate’s dealt a cruel hand.  
It’s going to be me.  
I’m going to be reaped.  
I’m going to the Hunger Games.  
Perhaps I tempted fate, or fate tempted me, but the next words from Petra’s rose-red lips are my name.  
“Mikasa Ackerman,” she announces. “Come on up, don’t be shy.”  
I can either accept my death sentence now, or scream and cry and protest. But I’m in the Games now. I’m a formidable contender that they don’t want to pick fights with, so I choose the former. Obviously, nobody volunteers.  
Plastering an emotionless expression onto my face for sake of the cameras, I ignore my brother’s traumatized cries and take brave steps – the first of many – up onto the stage. I hear him scream insults as he is hoisted up above the crowd and carried away. Then I look for my mother, looking flustered, and remember it may be the last look I see.  
Jean and I shake hands, and my emotionless expression soon turns to red hot fury as I see his smirk. He ruffles his ash-brown hair. Playing it cool, I mumble sarcastically under my breath, "I’m going to last longer than you. I know I will.”  
At this his piercing hazel eyes lock on mine, scolding me. Or is it the look a predator gives its prey? 

-

Peacekeepers hustle us into separate rooms in the Justice building. This place seems like a snapshot of Capitol life, with lush carpets and detailed tapestry, golden furniture and luxurious paintings… The list goes on. I may be in awe, but my emotions are running high as my family appears in the doorway.  
I’m almost crying. In the open, yes, I’m cold and indifferent, but here – where we’re shielded from the media – I let the tears run.  
“If you die, die as you are here. Mikasa Ackerman. And if you win, win by surviving.  
Don’t win because you killed them all. Stay as you are now, as you always have been.” he instructs, taking of his red woolen scarf. Funny that, I always wore it – it’s like a symbol of our childhood. We used to share it, but I wore it the most. How could I forget it today? Eren wraps it around my neck, looping the crimson material over my eyes. “Take it. Take me with you.”  
“We love you, Mikasa,” my mother says, choking on her words as they’re escorted out of the Justice Building.  
“I love you…I love you too,” I reply, eyes in floods of tears.  
“I’ll keep him safe,” she assures. “Don’t worry about us, we’ll be fine –”  
“-You won’t be fine. But I’ll make sure you are. I’ll come back, all in one piece. I’ll show them, and we can be together again. It doesn’t matter whether I live or not, I’ll make sure I come back as I am now.”  
But I will live.  
We don’t talk any more about the Games; the subject is too depressing. We talk about normal things – as normal as things get – as if nothing is wrong, until the time comes for us to part.  
“Don’t let them take who you are! Don’t let them kill you inside! Don’t show them their power!” Eren yells as the doors close. He’s always been like that; a radical against the Capitol. Some call him suicidal - with his remarks and insults he’s due for a beating any day, and I’m not sure how he’s slipped by these past fourteen years. I don’t know what age kids learn to talk, but I’m sure they’re meant to stop blurting out every thought at some age. I mean, everyone else I know has.  
He said he’d kill them.  
“Every last one of them.”  
And that just makes me even more anxious, because of course he can’t. But they can kill him.


	2. The Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mikasa fights with herself; her thoughts of her family knock her focus on the Games and bring her back into reality. Then the guilt strikes, and she knows it's just going to get worse. Will the people break her before the arena does?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, Chapter Two. Not sure I have much to say here, other than:  
> I don’t own either franchise – all the characters belong to Hajime Isayama (creator of Attack on Titan/Shingeki no Kyojin) and the fictional world and elements of the Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins (author of the Hunger Games trilogy). No profit will be made from this fictional work.  
> Thank you!

Chapter Two

Well, goodbye to my family, I guess. Emotional detachment is key.  
I’m next. We didn’t really talk to anyone else in the village, so nobody else comes to visit. With a cold glare, Levi practically drags me onto the train. Jean however, taller than Petra, walks with pride straight onto the carriage.  
We’ll see where that smug grin goes when he faces death head on.  
As I try to take in my surroundings and the past hour, conversation sparks up. Levi looks the pair of us up and down.  
“So you’re the new tributes, hm?” he asks rhetorically. “Christ, what happened to abstinence? Bet your parents are glad you got reaped.”  
“I sure as hell am,” Jean pipes up. “I’m going to be the victor.”  
His eyes meet Levi’s. “And you’re sure about that?”  
This is all highly amusing. After all, it can only work out in my favour, by making me look like the better tribute.  
“I think what Levi is trying to say is that…This isn’t a competition. It’s the Hunger Games,” Petra starts, but I cut in, staring at him intensely.  
“It’s your life or your death. It’s killing. It’s a sport. It’s just another way the Capitol exerts their power.” I sigh dramatically, but then my tone changes to something less flat and to something fierier. “And if you’re going to be so smug about it, I hope to god you’re the first one to die. That’s right Jean, it’s not just picking off 23 other people – it’s survival too.”  
Our mentor claps sarcastically. “I like this one, she’s smart. Now let’s talk strategy.”  
“Basically, what can you kill someone with?” Petra adds, trying to remind us of her presence.  
“Axes,” Jean replies, more serious. “I guess I could use a sword too. They do a lot of damage in one go,”  
“They also slow you down. I prefer knives,” I say. My personality has changed since I left Eren. I no longer have to look after him and shut him up; I feel more…human. Freer.  
“Knives?” Levi asks. “Where the hell did you learn how to use a knife? We don’t use them like that here in Seven. Fair enough, axes are used in the forest, but knives?”  
I shrug it off – they’ll just get a lie from me anyway. “Theoretically. It’s not like I’ve killed someone with them…” I pause. “The idea just seems to suit me.”  
“Knives are almost a guarantee in the arena, right?” Jean asks. “So she’ll probably have something. They don’t want to make it boring – I’d bet they’d have swords too. How else are we going to kill each other?”  
Petra giggles uncomfortably, tossing her shoulder length hair. “You sound so brutal!”  
“So what?” I ask. “We’re going to be forced to fight to the death in under a week’s time.”  
“Moving on…” she replies, reluctant to continue the grim topic. “What would you say are your best traits? Your selling points? What makes you who you are?”  
“Quit dragging it out. What can we play on?” Levi snaps.  
“Apathy,” I mutter, gazing out of the window. Hey, it’s better to start early, right?  
“Apathy works. It makes you look strong and unlikely to buckle under pressure. The audience likes that,” Petra explains. “And you, Jean?”  
He stumbles upon his words for once. “Um… I’m pragmatic. I don’t put myself in danger.”  
“That will sure as hell make you a victor,” Levi retorts sarcastically. “That’s all we need to know, for now, anyway. Come back in a few hours and we’ll have your strategy.”  
“Make yourself comfortable!” Petra smiles. “Go get undressed and showered and the Avoxes will clear them away.”  
Avoxes…Avoxes?! They really exist? I thought they were just a scare tactic from the Capitol. I can’t imagine the pain as they remove your tongue. As they remove your ability to speak; your ability to voice your opinion. As they remove your freedom.  
Is it some big joke to her? Does she not realise? Does she not care? Is her head really that high in the clouds, or is it just another one of her shameless acts?  
Before I turn to leave, I see the ginger lady cross one leg over her knee, pointing her snow white heels to make them glint in the sun. They’re discussing us, presumably, in hushed voices. I think I hear Levi make a comment about me, something greatly confusing from a man of such status. If only I caught what he said.

-

I collapse on my bed. Today has been the most exhausting, and I’m going to make the most of my privacy. After pulling off my walking boots, I carefully remove my scarf, setting it on the bedside table, before unbuttoning my white blouse and peeling of my beige trousers. Then, I pull on a robe set out for me. We don’t bother with looks in District 7. We work in forests, so we get dirty. No, there’s no point doing your hair when it will stay like that for 5 minutes. No, there’s no point in dressing nicely when you’re climbing trees all day.  
The technology obviously didn’t stop at the living room type carriage, as the bathroom has a button operated sliding door. In my opinion, that’s unnecessary. I peer around the pristine room, the white tile floor reflecting the blinding lights. The shower is more like a chamber.   
I remove my robe and gingerly open the cold glass door, examining the thousand buttons on the wall. I can decode the symbols, so I press the first button and hope for the best. Steam! So warm and relaxing –I crave the heat. Once the glass fogs up, I poke the next button across. The water is warm, but there’s a familiar scent with it: orchids. I remember fragrance as one from the few wildflowers in the woods where we worked. They killed most of them with machinery, but the orchids tended to stay or grow back.  
I spend a long time in the shower, cleaning myself properly in what seems like the first time since an age I can’t remember. When I’m finally finished, I put back on the clothes I arrived in. After all, I’ll go to bed in a few hours. I decide to explore the train, stumbling upon a small enclosed room as far away from everyone else as possible. At first glance, it seems like an ordinary sitting room, but the wall is more like a panel and light leaks under the bottom. I flick the switch on the wall, hoping something exciting will happen.  
For once, something actually goes my way. The metal screen lifts, revealing a floor-to-ceiling window. The sun is setting, so the food might be ready soon. Colours fill the horizon, and I notice we aren’t in Seven anymore. The thick forests are long gone but are yet to be replaced with anything more. Is Eren watching the same sunset? Unfortunately, my viewing is cut short when I hear Petra’s gleeful, high pitched voice calling for dinner.

‘Dinner’ is an understatement. ‘Dinner’ is the home cooked meal you get after a hard day’s work. This is a banquet that I doubt I can manage. It makes me feel sick just knowing that everyone else is starving, living on as little as possible to save the money they have. It’s culture shock, I suppose, but how do Capitol citizens do it?  
The first course arrives: steaming bowls of soup, radiating from red to yellow in the middle, decorated with herbs I can’t identify. I cautiously dip my spoon in, unsure of the flavor – we’ve never had this rich food at home, nobody has.  
“And just to think!” Petra exclaims. “You’ll only get more of this before you go into the Games! You’re so lucky, you know. I’m sure anyone would give their right arm to take your places and experience such an amazing standard of living!”   
Lucky? We’ve practically been sentenced to death. “How are we lucky? In a week or so, one or both of us will be dead, and the other may have killed the rest. Dead or murderers, you hear me? How can you be happy about that?!” I’m enraged, to put it simply.  
“Don’t talk to me like that. If you at least want a chance at surviving, you’re going to have to work on your attitude. Negativity will get you nowhere.” And I’ve put Petra into the same mindset. I can tell by the way she speaks through gritted teeth.  
“No, she’s right,” Jean speaks up. I don’t know who he’s talking about, but I would hope it’s me, even though that’s unlikely. “Your optimism is insensitive, honestly. I may hate my district partner, and she may hate me. But at least we think the same.” Where did that come from? That was awfully backhanded. Bitter, I might say; he didn’t need to go off track like that.  
“It appears we do,” I smirk. “I was kind of hoping I’d get to stab you in the back before anyone else.”   
“Both of you, quit it.” Levi orders in a flat tone. “You kill each other and you’re a disgrace. Fair enough, if you’re the last two. Otherwise, you’re just bringing the district down.”  
This shuts us up as the second course arrives. I can tell it’s fish when I take a bite, but I’m only sure which when Levi mumbles, “Salmon…salmon en croute.” The layers of pastry, fresh fish and sauce warm me thoroughly, and I can’t help but feel better. It’s delicious. I don’t want to look like a pig, however, so I try to restrain myself from scoffing the lot. I take a sip of the sparkling drink I’ve yet to investigate. It can’t be alcohol, because we’re both underage…I think. But it tastes fruity, and the fizz goes to my nose which gives me a shock.  
“Tasty, no?” Petra giggles. I notice her glass is filled with a darker liquid – red wine. Dessert is served and I’m glad it’s the last course; I’m stuffed. A simple vanilla cheesecake for all of us arrives, although it’s definitely been designed. The cut is uniform and nothing falls over the side, and the fruit on top seems stuck to the filling. Not to mention the zig-zag sauce and dusting – this has been crafted, not cooked. I again take feverish bites, but this is too much and I can’t finish.  
“You finished?” Levi asks, which I reply with a nod. “Tribute bonding time, then,” he says sarcastically. Acknowledging our shocked looks, he adds, “You really hate each other that much? We’ll just watch a recap of the day and then study past games. We want you to win, don’t forget. You’re not just here to stuff your faces and have fun.”

-

We sit down in front of a screen in yet another room. The reapings are in order of district, from One to Twelve. District One’s tributes are a sullen looking blonde girl, and a lanky dark haired boy. “Annie Leonhart and Bertolt Hoover” display on-screen. Two’s are a catty ash-blonde and a bear of a boy who looks about eighteen. “Hitch Dreyse and Reiner Braun”. No volunteers, then? That’s quite odd. District Three’s seem a slight disappointment; two small, frail kids with pleading eyes: “Krista Lenz and Armin Arlert”. Four’s are more uplifting, a boy I don’t catch the face of and a tall, freckled intimidating brunette. In fact, I see very little about both other than the names “Marcel” and “Ymir”. So far, there is one theme running through – the lack of tears. The girl from District Two is elated, bounding up to the stage, and Ymir gives a cold stare to the camera. I’m glad I put on the mask I did. Five are two that wouldn’t stand out, a blond boy and a raven-haired girl with pigtails. By six, my attention span is dwindling and I’m wondering about the week to come. However, it’s then my face and Jean’s that appear next.  
We look somewhat memorable, enough for everything to flood back. They’re vivid – the swarming crowds, the screech of the microphone, Eren’s tortured screams. Not to mention our mother’s teary eyes…  
Eight; a girl I missed and an occurrence quite abnormal for us ‘lesser districts’. A freckled, dark haired boy volunteers, but it isn’t his family. It’s just a twelve year old who could be a stranger. “Marco Bodt” has an angelic presence to him. I don’t even bother to watch Nine, that’s how tired I am. But I stick it out for ten, whose tributes are “Sasha Braus” and “Connie Springer”, a tall brunette and a short, bald boy. I’m almost asleep afterwards. To no avail, however, do I manage to get some rest.  
“Eyes up, Mikasa.” Levi says, switching over the TV and inserting a disc. “We’re watching previous Hunger Games with the better victors.”  
“Will we be watching your Games?” Jean asks foolishly.  
“Stupid question. Now watch.”  
After what seems like an age later, we’ve changed the disc about ten times. The worst part is I feel less clued up than before. The strategies and arenas cloud my head, so I can’t remember key things I need to know. Petra peers behind the door, squealing when she sees what we’re watching.  
“I’m just reminding you, it’s the Remake Centre in the morning! Very important, if you ask me!” she giggles. “And I am organizing the pair of you, so you better listen up and go to bed.” Thank god for Petra, who finally gives as an escape.  
In my room, I find a white silken nightdress on my bed. In our district, this would be a waste – if you have luxury, you sell it on in pursuit of something worthwhile. Still, it’s hugely comfortable and I feel like I’m wearing soft, pastel blue skies.  
I don’t sleep. Not well, anyway. Home is prominent in my thoughts; too prominent. Do they know I’m not coming back? Have they seen the competition? Have they seen my possible murderers?   
I want them here. I want to go back.  
I need us together as a family again.  
I stare at the ceiling until my eyes go red, because I so desperately need them. I need them, I need them to survive. I get out of bed and slide open the window, the cold breeze clearing my head. I would look outside, but it’s too dark to see. Even with the light pollution, hinting at nearing civilization, it’s simply not worth it. So I close the window, and refreshed, try and sleep.


	3. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mikasa suffers from extreme treatment in the Remake Centre, both in cosmetic and social respects. She finds the general Capitol personality insufferable, until the people there do her a favour at the opening ceremony...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the part where my 'only use SnK characters' goal begins. At first, I couldn't think of anyone suitable for some of the roles. That's been going on ever since, too! It's kind of ironic, really, because there are plenty of characters to use. Onto the disclaimer:  
> I don’t own either franchise – all the characters belong to Hajime Isayama (creator of Attack on Titan/Shingeki no Kyojin) and the fictional world and elements of the Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins (author of the Hunger Games trilogy). No profit will be made from this fictional work.

Chapter Three  
Instinct kicks in for everyone, and we both rise before we can be embarrassed by Petra for sleeping in. I find more clothing on the dresser in my compartment – standard district apparel. I can’t tell whose decision this was: Petra may believe in first impressions, but Levi is rumoured to be a neat freak. Whatever happened, I button up the grey blouse and slip on the tan jodhpurs. After all, today is “Very important”.  
Levi joins us at the breakfast table as the food is served. It’s more of a buffet-type meal. “Eat as much as you need. Put on as much weight as possible, you’re not fantastically well fed.” What he says is true. In Seven, we’re fed just a little less than we need to keep us going throughout the day. Outside of work, food isn’t easy to source cheaply, so we don’t get much there either. When we’re not working in the week, we’re at school, and there? They’re hardly going to feed us. It’s up to us to bring our lunch.  
I notice that Jean is quite well-built, more than I am. We’re both fifteen, and there’s more growing to do (if we don’t die first) but I assume he worked as a logger. Most of us – the smaller ones, anyway – just worked collecting branches and bringing them back and forth all day. Some of us used to climb the trees, and others used to run back and forth doing the jobs. We were the fastest and most agile of the workers, but we didn’t have the strength to do the logging. And although that may be an advantage at first, the Games always ends in conflict.  
Once I get to serve myself, I treat myself to a hearty meal: bacon, hash browns, fried bread, beans, tomatoes…Then I remember where they’re coming from. Bacon – District Ten. Bread – District Nine. Beans – District Eleven. Disgusting, to say the least. I eat anyway; I’ve never eaten properly my whole life. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity – I can eat what I want, with no limits. Like Levi says, I need to put on as much weight as possible before I go into the arena, and it’s common knowledge that it’ll be lost soon enough. I keep out of conversation and focus on my own thoughts, which is calming for once.  
“Remember, first impressions count!” Petra reminds us. “You want sponsors, and sponsors want tributes who might actually win. Make them like you!” She glances at my expression. “And don’t hesitate to fake a little!”  
“Thanks, I won’t.” I reply sarcastically with a hint of gloom, leaving the table unexcused. When I return to my compartment, the clothing I left yesterday is gone. All that’s left are my boots and the scarf I left on the nightstand. After pulling the boots on, I loop the scarf around my neck as Eren did. It smells like home. Then I line up with the rest of our group at the train exit.  
Just before the door opens, Levi mutters something into my ears. “You don’t have to look happy, just look interested. In awe. Compliment their culture.”  
I don’t need to act, because the sight that awaits me yet is breathtaking. A sprawling metropolis of all pastel colours, the Capitol is in its own little bubble of fun; the rest of the world is insignificant here. The load roar of the crowd is almost deafening, but I manage to pull through. I toss my hair away from the camera – the wind here is an advantage – and gaze towards the skyline. I don’t care about the audience, I care about the vistas. That’s what my face says, but not my heart. Soon enough, we are ushered away to the Remake Centre, where we will be made-over. Transformed into Capitol clones, more like.

-

I am dunked in a bath full of a fragrant purple solution, and in reaction my skin fizzes. It’s uncomfortable; the mixture is noxious and my head is swimming. When I come to my senses, a woman is at the side of the tub again.  
“I’m Nanaba,” she introduces, smiling. “Nice to meet you, Mikasa.” Nanaba would seem fairly genuine, were it not for the fact that her eyelashes are overly enhanced, her eyes larger than what’s natural and her pixie cut hair is dyed a pale teal. Why is this considered desirable? The purple lipstick doesn’t do anything for her, either – it’s just a different colour. “Ilse and Rico will be along shortly.”  
When I’m finally allowed to get out of the bath, I’m virtually hairless, apart from that on my head.  
“I’m Ilse. Don’t worry, we’re nearly done,” Ilse says. The squeaky Capitol accent seems alien, compared to the voices I’ve been hearing before now. Petra seems to have a very weak Capitol tongue, and of course Levi doesn’t as he’s from District Seven. She tosses her dark brown hair, which seems glued into place by hairspray, and checks her long, black manicured nails that give a sophisticated look. But by nature of the Capitol, they’re not normal size, and seem an inch long instead. I notice her skin isn’t… normal. It seems too yellow to be normal, and shines in the light. Until you really see it, it looks like a tan. Except, it actually shimmers. Gold skin, who’d have thought it? “Hange will be along soon, but the point of the prep team, of course, is to prep you!”  
“No offense, but you need…a lot of prep.” the other, who I assume is Rico, says. She is less enthusiastic than the others, and seems less fake; less styled. She must be new – her hair is cut into a short white bob with black tips, and everything she wears, including her sleek, modern glasses, is monotone (with the exception of some neutral makeup touch ups here and there).   
“See? Now you’re all hairless it makes it much easier to clean off all the grime!” Nanaba cheers. “Oh, and don’t listen to Rico. She takes her job just too seriously!”  
“I feel like a plucked chicken,” I state, but I’m ignored. I’m lead to a table, and much to my dismay I’m forced to lay down stark naked. Then the scrubbing starts. It feels like more dirt is being applied than is removed; the foam is full of grit and the flannels might as well be sandpaper. Everything in the Capitol is scented, and the fumes quickly go to my head.  
“Don’t worry about the stinging,” Ilse giggles. “We’ve got cream for that.”   
Stinging is an understatement. My skin burns, as if a thousand ants are biting me in unison. Soon enough, however, I’m lathered up in a fresh smelling ointment, and the pain leaves my body. Next is filing my nails and styling them, which takes quite a while considering that there’s no point in such material things when you’re doing potentially grubby work all day. The prep team remind me of fairies – brightly coloured, fluttering, and in their own little world.  
“Finally, you’re done! We’ll call in Hange!” Nanaba exclaims, clapping.  
“Oh…you’re going to be the most stunning tribute!” Ilse compliments.  
“If we’re not outdone by the eleven other districts,” Rico says.  
As Hange enters, the prep team leaves. “Hello, Mikasa. I’m Hange, or Zoe, whichever you prefer.” She seems nice enough, I suppose. I just can’t shake the feeling of eagle eyes all over my body, and I just wish I could pull the robe over me. Cover up my belongings. Hide what’s mine from the Capitol. It’s my body.  
“Are you done yet?” I ask, impatiently.  
“Give me a moment,” she retorts. I take the opportunity to stare her down. Like Rico, she wears glasses, but hers are much chunkier. She’s dressed in a long, white overcoat filled with geometric patterns, only in monotone; a navy dress which I struggle to differentiate from black; and knee high black boots. Not my pick, but she’s the stylist here. Her hair is done simply in a wavy brown updo, but the colour seems too deep to be natural. “District Seven, hm?” she asks.  
“Trees and wood,” I reply. How do I answer that? “And I guess you’ll just put us in tree costumes?”  
“Don’t pre-judge like that. It’s considered rude to underestimate one’s talent,” she answers, putting me back in my place. She lets me pull on my robe. “Come along.”  
Zoe walks with me into a nearby room that faces out onto the city – it would be a terrace, with all the greenery, but of course that’s inconvenient because they can’t control the weather. We sit at a low, glass coffee table, facing each other on minimalist black sofas. I don’t want to look into her eyes, so I stare out of the floor-to-ceiling window. In my peripheral vision, I see her sip one of the two cups on the table.  
“It’s hot chocolate,” she says. “Don’t you like it?” In fact, I do. When we had a treat back at home, that’s always what it’d be. I feverishly take a sip at the hot drink. “Are you hungry?” she asks.  
“I guess…nothing much, though.” I can’t find the words to describe how little I want to talk; I just want to sit and take in the situation. Zoe presses a button, and through the only opaque part of the table, plates appear. At the press of a button, gourmet food can appear in front of you. How? On the plates are what look like fancy, shaped dumplings in a white sauce. It’s delicious. But it’s still disgusting, too. In other districts, masses are starving. So why is it so unfair?  
“Loosen up,” she laughs, but her face turns to a serious expression. “We don’t control what we get, okay? Learn to forget about it. I struggle knowing myself.”  
I look down at my half eaten meal. “Back to costumes or whatever…” I eagerly try to change the subject. Most districts can work with symbolism in their outfits, but some of us have to be more…literal. How can you show the trade of lumber without actually showing that? How can you not dress someone up as livestock? More unfairness from the Capitol.  
“So, where do you work in District Seven?” Zoe questions.  
“In…In the forest?” I answer, unsure. Is this a trick question?  
“What do you find in forests?”  
“Well…trees? Leaves?” Why is she asking? “What is this, a test?”  
“Anything else? Birds? Flowers?” She asks. “If I told you that you weren’t just going to be trees, how would you feel?” What kind of question is that?  
“I really wouldn’t care. I’m already going to die, so what’s the point?” I reply.  
“Let me convince you otherwise.”

-

Only hours later, we’re stood with the prep team again. It seems less like makeup and more like face paint.   
“Nearly done, dear!” Ilse coos. “Just a few highlights here, and….done!” My hair is blasted with shiny dust. Jean and I have identical outfits – brown shirts and flowing trousers. Does Hange really think we’re going to make an entrance with these? Perhaps Jean’s stylist – I think Moblit was his name – has some better ideas for us?  
At this, the pair enters with cloaks all shades of green. They might as well be actual leaves, because that’s how real they look. One is wrapped around each of us, and I finally see the vision they’re trying to create.  
“This isn’t all,” Moblit smiles. “We’ll be right back with the headdresses.” I don’t even get time to question him, but they’re back soon enough. One matches my hair colour and the other matches Jean’s. Is this the reason our eyes look so smoky? The headdresses – with a dazzling effect – are made purely out of feathers. His are tawny, mine raven black.  
We are a forest: covered in leaves, dark, mysterious and full of wildlife. We might actually make an entrance.  
“You look like a crow,” Jean says, trying to knock my confidence.  
“And you, a sparrow. Don’t forget, Jean – if you bring me down at this stage, your reputation is doomed too.” I smile sweetly, turning my smile into a glare.  
Before stepping on to the chariot, Levi approaches us. “You’re separate, don’t forget. Don’t interact, and don’t do anything stupid…you know what I mean. Go with whatever personality suits you best,” he says. I can’t take much from it, so I guess I’ll just have to go with the flow.  
The first thing that hits me is the music; the iconic Capitol-style music. Soon enough, I shake the shock and focus on my appearance. Our faces appear on the screen, but it’s not just the screens in the city, I realise. We’re being broadcast nationally. My makeup glimmers in the bright city lights, so I immediately thank Hange and the prep team.  
Eren is watching. I can hear him, telling me that I have to win, that I have to make a good impression… I need him, though. Now. To hold. To never let go.  
“How long until the horses go berserk?” Jean jokes. I can never tell when he’s being genuine and when he’s trying to throw me off balance.  
“Hopefully, soon. Get me out of here,” I reply, not at all serious. I don’t mind the limelight, personally.  
My attention turns to the crowd, who are expecting us to make a show. Of course they are; the Districts always work for the Capitol, even here, even now. I go along anyway, turning my head this way and that. I’m careful not to smile, because on the surface I might be enjoying it, but deep down it just fuels the fire. So I go for a blank expression; beauty lacking emotion. Practically the Capitol, but to a less grotesque degree. We’re thrown flowers here and there, but the focus is on the Careers.  
The camera has now shifted to District One – luxury, the tributes encased in priceless gems, much like their exports. The blonde girl looks bored, empty and sullen; much like her reaping’s expression. Her counterpart is still as weak willed as he was. It’s almost as if they’ve been frozen in time. These tributes, they’re certainly lacking the usual spirit of a Career.  
I’m too bothered with my own impressions to worry about the other districts, and before we know it, the parade is over. I can’t say I wouldn’t mind doing it again.  
“Oh, that worked perfectly!” Hange exclaims as we step off the chariots. “You did just wonderful out there!”   
The next half hour is filled with praise, as the makeup is stripped of and the clothing carefully folded. There’s a cynical voice in the back of my head though, and it’s only mine.  
Enjoy it, Mikasa. Enjoy it while you can. These people from the Capitol aren’t your friends. They’re paid to do a job. Jean is not your ally; he’s here to kill you. And so is everyone else…


	4. Adjusting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A certain stranger sets thoughts and events in motion that Mikasa will not forget... And then there are the memories of home she brings along with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only just realised I don't need a disclaimer every chapter...oops.

Chapter Four

The Training Centre: the complex that tributes stay in. They are given only three days to train with weaponry, expand survival knowledge and learn new skills. Every district has a whole floor to themselves, complete not only with bedrooms for the party but dining quarters too. We shoot up in a glass tube – an elevator – watching as the people below turn to tiny ants. I’m unnerved, though. Glass shatters so easily, ready to hurt anyone that comes near it. Like a tribute in the Games, really. This is higher than any tree in the forests near home. The car ‘dings’, but I’m too mesmerized by the sight below to turn around and exit.  
Petra primps her copper hair. “We don’t have any time to lose. Come along, darlings.”  
Darlings. That’s new.  
“Get those feet moving. You know, if you think this is bad, you ought to consider the fact that you’re not in heels yet! Gosh, and you’ll be running all day in the aren-”  
I can see the anger boil up before Jean snaps. “Can you stop mentioning the damn arena? We didn’t ask to come here. The least you could do is let us forget before we really have to face the fact that we’re going to die!”  
“You think I’m trying to remind you? And you think your job is hard! Get pampered, stuff your faces… Every single year I wave off the tributes, and what happens? They die. Gone.” She waves her hand, brushing the air. “I’m trying to be as positive as is possible. I’m trying to encourage you. If you want a more depressing atmosphere, why don’t you ask Levi about your odds?”  
“Why don’t you both shut the hell up?” Levi says flatly. At this, Petra looks shocked like a rabbit caught in the headlights, as if she’s just disappointed him. “It’s late and we all need to unwind. Drop it, we have things to discuss.”  
She resumes her happy tone. “Of course… You’re training in the morning, so you do need all the energy you can get!” But I can see through Petra’s glazed eyes; bright eyed tributes of the past turned into mangled corpses. She’s more down to earth when you think about it. There’s more to her than meets the eye.

-

We sit down to another gourmet dinner, but everyone knows that’s not the reason we’re sat round the table.  
“I’m so glad you’ve already decided an image,” Petra starts. “You know, it makes it much easier to sell you as tributes. Mikasa Ackerman, observant and pensive. They like that, knowing you won’t die straight away. We don’t like to waste our money. Jean Kirschtein, passionate and determined. You're standalone tributes – fantastic!”  
“I guess that’s great?” I hesitate. What am I meant to say?  
“It definitely is! However, I can’t seal any deals. They may be interested, but it’s Levi’s job to organize them. I’m sure he’ll do a good job.”  
Wine is served by an Avox, a girl with shoulder length, dark hair and wide eyes. I catch myself before I attempt to thank her, warned by Levi’s stares.  
“You should…You’re not allowed to talk to them unless you’re giving an order. They’re Avoxes, Capitol… traitors,” he stutters. I can see why he rephrased; he knows how wrong that is. “Anyway. Here’s how sponsoring’s going to work in the arena. We all know nobody wants to talk about it, but we have to. Things are expensive, so don’t expect a daily flow of food. It’s the Hunger Games, after all.”  
“What if we’re starving?” Jean asks. It’s a valid question.  
“Then we can send you some,” Petra answers.  
“Then you’ll have to find some food. I’ll only send anything if you have no chance. Like medicine, which you’ll only get in a feast. After watching past Games, you know how risky they are.” Levi corrects.  
The food is divine and much lighter than the rich fare from the train. When I arrive back at my room I’m still hungry though, much to my dismay. There isn’t such a thing as full in District Seven. We may get a good meal now and then, and at least one meal each day, but everyone struggles to get by. If you want a lot, you pay a lot. But I take advantage of my situation and whisper into the mouthpiece – the dumplings I ate with Hange earlier were delicious, and after skimming the menu I find the name I need. They rise out of the machine, steaming and hot on the plate, even with cutlery. I take a few bites before setting it down so I can get changed. I’d already stripped of the cape and headdress once I stepped off the chariot, but the underclothing and makeup still remains.  
I look at my bedside clock – it’s nine already. Inspecting the bathroom, I find not only a shower but a bath, the side laden with different oils and soaps. I don’t really want to have to run a bath and soak, though, so I opt for a shower instead. I punch one of the buttons, instantly scalded by a hot spray. Hopefully I won’t be burned. I click another, hoping for something more pleasant, and I take a regular shower instead. I can’t say I understand Capitol technology, because we have little of that at home. We do have running water, but there are no showers; there are no fridges, we only have a pantry; and no high tech ovens, a simple aga for heating and cooking. The nearest we have to Capitol standard is the old TV we have to watch for mandatory viewings.  
I step out of the shower and wrap an immaculate white towel around my body. On my bed, I find a white nightdress, like mother used to wear. I clear up the plate used for the dumpling by placing it on the machine it came from…then I notice her, watching me like a hawk with pleading eyes. It’s unnerving.  
“I’m…sorry. What – what did you do?” I choke. She replies bye tracing a line across her throat with her finger, and swiftly leaves with my clothing. She killed someone.  
But does she deserve this?  
At home, Eren and I would sleep in the same bed.  
Before our father left, anyway. Then we all slept in the same bed – she couldn’t make ends meet and had to sell one. Surprisingly, the savings went quite quickly, even though he was a doctor. Well, he ran off with some of the money, didn’t he? But we felt closer, and we felt safer. I would be able to protect Eren no matter what. How ironic.  
I stare at the ceiling, listening to the Capitol gales, but soon enough drift off into a deep sleep.

-

We’re in a hovercraft, on the way to the arena. “Whatever happens,” I say, but I can’t look at his face. “Come and find me.”  
I’m stood on a podium. I look to my left, and my right. It’s not Jean that’s there. It’s not just another tribute.  
It’s Eren, and I will protect him. I will protect him. I must protect him. The countdown begins - sixty seconds washes away to nowhere. Three…two…one…run. My instinct kicks in and I sprint to follow Eren, who runs towards the warzone. Neither of us picks up anything: we are just running, running to our deaths. I can’t control my legs, though, I just run towards Eren, shielding him. Then I hear the whistling of the blade; I know what I have to do.  
I see the silver knife glide past my nose, but I turn my head all too soon towards the source. It lodges in my eye, and the world shatters into one million pieces. The last thing I see is the face of the Avox.  
Haven’t I done my job? To protect him until the end?  
Levi was right – we shouldn’t talk to them. It’s just a reminder of the corrupt world we live in.

-

I wake up in a cold sweat, reaching to the side of me for Eren. Obviously, he isn’t there.  
I can’t go back to sleep now. It’s too soon; the dream is replaying vividly in my head. I open my room door, peering down the hallway. My head is still foggy, but I can see a figure sat up against the wall.  
Jean turns his head to me. “I didn’t sleep.”  
“I died.” I reply. “I dreamed that I died. I’d rather have not slept.”  
“I don’t want to be responsible for someone else’s death. Whoever it is, nobody deserves to die out here.”  
“But they have to. You die, or someone else does – the choice is yours. Isn’t it better to survive?”  
“Not at the expense of somebody else.” He states.  
“You’re mistaken.”  
“I’m mistaken? Mikasa Ackerman, the stone cold, heartless killer. Don’t you care?”  
“There are plenty of wonderful people on this earth. And plenty of bad people too. The world is cruel, but it is also beautiful. But they’re all going to die at some point.” I answer.  
“Exactly. There are good people. I don’t want to kill good people.”  
“So you just want to die? You talk about how precious life is and you’re going to throw it away? You’re just going to let the Capitol do that? Take you, like another piece in their never ending game?”  
“I don’t care about the Capitol. I just don’t want the responsibility of being a killer, okay?”  
“You can’t just pick and choose! You will have to kill, even when you don’t want to.” I argue.  
“And how the hell would you know? Who’d you murder to protect your kid brother?”  
“I was protecting myself.”  
“The hell’s going on out here?” It’s Levi. “I heard everything. What are you talking about?” He looks generally annoyed, but I doubt he’s slept anyway.  
“I’d rather not disclose.”  
“If you want to survive, it may be a good idea. It may help your reputation a lot.”

So I tell the story that’s never been told. It’s not easy, and I feel sick to my stomach recalling it. I don’t cry; I can’t show weakness. Anywhere.

-

We lived on the outskirts of the District, far away from anyone else. My father worked like any other man, logging in the forest, and my mother was a tailor. We were due doctor’s checkup, quite convenient because of where we were. But when they knocked on the door, it wasn’t Doctor Jaeger.  
I remember the piercing scream as my own father was stabbed, the heart-wrenching sight of seeing him fall to the ground. The trio next went for my mother, who tried to fight back with the scissors she’d been using. She was too weak. I remember her crying “Get the knife!” and I remember the pain in her eyes, the agonizing shrieks. They came for me next, and still to this day I don’t know why.  
That was when Eren burst through the door. He never told me why he did, either, but he saved me. He grabbed the knife instead. Everything was a blur, but I remember him rapidly stabbing one of those monsters to death…Until he was caught, and I got a grip. That knife, it was my lifeline. I couldn’t bear to see anyone else die, not me, not the boy about to be strangled.  
You can’t choose who you kill, though, can you? It’s survival.  
I had to.  
I killed him.  
So why did I end up with his family? We’d be the only ones punished had it been reported. The murderers and the victims were dead, after all. Obviously, the criminals weren’t workers, so they weren’t searched for. His father could report my parents as dead from disease, and that could be the end of it. They wouldn’t see them again, so it was believable. Without input from the authorities, there’d been nobody else to go to, and if there was input… I’ve already explained. We’d be punished, beaten, and maybe even killed.

-

I’m not at all descriptive. I stumble along the traumatic facts. Then I realise, I may have destroyed everyone’s focus on the Games in one blow.  
“So you didn’t know?” Levi asks.  
“Know what?” I’m greatly confused. Could they have both been saved? I need to know.  
“You’re an Ackerman. I’m an Ackerman. Didn’t you know about extended family?”  
“We didn’t know about any others. Or my father didn’t tell us.” I reply. This is making no sense. Why does it matter that much?  
“Probably fell out with the rest and moved away. If you’d have known, you could have moved in with one of our families. You’d have lived a better life. You’d have had more support.” He explains.  
“It doesn’t matter now.” I answer. It really doesn’t. I don’t need to know how much better my life could’ve been. I don’t need to know that had I made a different choice I might not be in the Games.  
“It’s better to go into the Games knowing, though. Isn’t it?” Jean adds.  
I don’t want to deal with this now. I don’t want to deal with it ever. I don’t want to deal with it here, in the Capitol, where I’m about to die. So I get up and leave without saying a word.

-

My room is the only place I have privacy. If I cry now, it won’t come out in public.  
I never thought I’d cry myself to sleep.


End file.
